


Kairos

by CCNSurvivor



Category: The Worst Witch (TV 2017)
Genre: Alternative reunion, Angst, F/F, Hurt/Comfort, Masked ball, Pining, the silver and golden dresses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-03
Updated: 2018-05-19
Packaged: 2019-04-18 02:42:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 14,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14203314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CCNSurvivor/pseuds/CCNSurvivor
Summary: What if Hecate and Pippa didn't meet again at the Spelling Bee but rather at a masked ball?





	1. Red

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thispapermoon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thispapermoon/gifts).



Red as Foxgloves

 

 

Time is a funny thing, Hecate thinks, as she transfers after Ada into the sweeping hallway of the Grand Palais. The thought isn’t exactly novel, in fact, it almost is the main accompaniment to her life.

She catches her pocket watch with stiff fingers, stops it from swinging further away from her abdomen than absolutely necessary. Wishes, instantly, the grey gown that’s infused with silver and midnight blue highlights had buttons she could loop the chain around. Because it frightens her sometimes, the momentum of her body that carries the watch further and further away. A millisecond of helplessness, a motion that cannot instantly be prevented.

“Don’t forget your mask, Hecate,” Ada reminds her.

They’re still alone together in the hallway, but the music and the voices emanating from the ballroom make it sound as though they’re not. There’s laughter and cheerfulness enough to drown her out, Hecate thinks, catches her reflection in one of the large mirrors that line the wall and is almost surprised to find herself looking back. Shoulders squared, jaw set firmly. Hazel eyes dim. The sharp red of her lipstick a stark contrast to the pallor of her skin. Like the kiss of poisonous berries. Red as foxgloves. Hair drawn up tightly into a bun, exposing far more of herself (of neck and throat, shoulders and collarbones) than she’d originally intended.

Alive, although she feels anything but at times. Especially in crowds like the one awaiting her beyond those heavy oak doors. A sea of people that swallows her up then yanks her to the surface, tossing her here then there, carelessly, until she becomes one with the grey foam. Bubbling and spuming in anguish before dissolving into bland emptiness. A state of conscious non-existence.

The thought makes her shiver and so she hurriedly subdues it, puts on her mask instead like Ada expects her to. Ada Cackle, headmistress of Cackle’s Witching Academy. Her superior, her mentor and…friend? Hecate brushes the thought aside before it can multiply and grow into something she can impossibly contain. Like a swarm of wasps that buzz and sting until her insides are deformed and swollen. Leaving no room for anything but the sharp, nagging pain. No, Ada Cackle _is_ her friend, her mentor, her superior. Her saviour to whom she owes unquestionable loyalty. The only person in existence who could possibly persuade her to attend this ridiculous masked ball.

“I’m ready,” Hecate says in that voice she’s reserved for composure, not because she feels prepared, but because she’s expected to.

But the tone that she hears works wonders, slips under her skin and brings out her shoulder blades. Two bones that act like armour, that spell pain for anyone who dares encroach on her personal space. There’s a kind of confidence in a rigid posture; she’s discovered that years ago. There’s a kind of loneliness contained within it too.

Ada smiles at her indulgently like she sometimes does, her eyes twinkling at her brightly, undimmed even by the mask that throws her face in shadow. Reaches out to link their arms in that motherly fashion Hecate only tolerates from her, then stops herself, smiles again and settles for a wave of the hand instead.

“Try to have fun, Hecate. It’s only a few hours and Litha only comes around once a year. Savour it.”

Hecate smiles in return, an uncomfortable smile that tugs disagreeably at her lips. Then she nods. But she doesn’t comment, doesn’t want to remind Ada again that she isn’t here for the festivities – worship and thanks she’d much happier give by herself, a time for quiet reflection as the days grow shorter and the nights longer – that she has merely agreed to accompany her because Cackle’s is short of teaching staff again and Ada hopes that the gathering will offer more opportunities.

Together they push open the heavy oak doors and step into the ballroom. Colours assault her – pink and green and blue and violet – colours and sounds. As Ada wades bravely into the masses, she does not even realise that she’s left Hecate behind. Hecate who stands and blinks against it all, this whirlpool of light and frivolous abandon. The whole room somehow in motion, twisting, turning, spiralling away.

She can feel her stomach clench in discomfort, can feel it contract and tighten, spoilt by the richness that assaults her senses. Almost longs to turn herself inside out, dispelling everything she cannot digest. Hands smear perspiration against her dress that’s washing out against the backdrop of colours. Then fingers stiffly collect her watch again.

In Ancient Greek there were two words for time, she thinks. _Chronos_ , which measured sequential time and _Kairos_ which described a right or critical moment. If she measures tonight according to the former, thinks of it as a series of meaningless moments strung together, perhaps it will become more bearable. Hecate doesn’t put much stock in the latter, searches still for too many answers to find any sort of solace in that.

Painstakingly, she collects herself. Draws air into her lungs and then releases it again. It never quite fills her, is musty and stale and utterly unpalatable. Still, she takes the plunge and sets one foot forward, another step away from the threshold that tethers her to safety.

And that’s when the ground crumbles underneath her, or so it feels when she spots the figure in the golden gown. All honey and feminine grace. Alive and radiant like the sun goddess herself. Breath rushes out of her body in a heavy sigh, parches her throat, leaves nothing behind but brittle salt and bitterness. For a moment all of time, all of that strange, funny concept freezes as Hecate stands there watching her dance, follows every sway of her hips, every thrust of her beautiful slender arms.

Joyful, carefree, sensual. One with magic, one with herself.

So full of light that Hecate can barely stand to gaze at her, can almost feel the warmth she emits on her own skin. Like the flutter of something. Words whispered in the depth of night, fingertips seeking each other, the barest of touches. Threatening to melt the ice around her heart, cracking it into tiny particles that spin like snowflakes through her chest. Catching here and there.

She can feel her chin tremble as she drinks her in, thirsty, gasping for more after decades of drought. Pippa Pentangle. Too little and too much at once. As always. She knows it’s her, doesn’t need her to turn around, doesn’t need to see her face, her eyes, her…

Hecate catches herself from tumbling further. Straightens her spine until it feels as though her shoulder blades might puncture her skin. All that which is tender and raw forcibly tucked away. Here they are, sun and moon reunited, and Hecate finally begins to question the timing of her life.


	2. Green

She is still young when it happens. A twig of a thing with long spindly arms but healthy and robust, not brittle like she is now in her advanced years. She can still sway and bend to the whims of the wind that have been harsh and unkind.

She doesn’t mean for it to happen. But Pippa Pentangle sweeps into her life and leaves her no choice. It’s her very essence, Hecate thinks even now, her spark that sizzles and dances and ignites something within her that refuses to lie dormant any longer. It’s joyful at first, joyful and alive that thing that roars inside her, that splays warmth throughout her abdomen, settles snugly between her ribs. It fills her. Naturally, not forcibly. It makes her feel her body for the first time, that empty vessel that carried her about, that took the words, the bruises and tucked them away somewhere out of sight.

But Hecate is not used to having a friend, someone who smiles at her warmly and openly, someone whose touch does not make her flinch. So she tries to adjust, stumbles about clumsily at times, so unaccustomed to being full to the brim that she inadvertently spills more of herself than she intends. Salt and sweetness, both surprisingly palatable to Pippa.

They learn each other over time, it isn’t easy. There are sharp corners to be navigated and thorns to be tugged from tender flesh. But when they lie together in the rich green grass, perfectly meshed, a Reef knot of limbs and curves, Hecate almost dares to dream. The dreams have no shape initially, they drift past like the wispy clouds above them. Sometimes casting shadow, always allowing light.

She closes her eyes and lets herself drift as well, melts further into Pippa’s embrace. Heat radiates from her sun-kissed skin through her clothes, warming her. With her ear pressed against Pippa’s chest she can hear the beat of promise that thrums and drums lively. And Hecate starts running curious fingers over her body, begins cataloguing it according to attributes.

Grace sleeps in the slope of her shoulders, kindness lives nestled in the laughter lines around her mouth and eyes. She hasn’t seen anyone smile as much as Pippa, in honesty and without expectation. She doesn’t realise that Pippa’s smiles come easier when she’s around her. Pride resides in her spine. Peace in her breast. There’s more, Hecate knows, because she can feel it as her fingers travel, as her fingertips slide below her navel and move to skirt along that border that divides the known from the unknown. She has no words for that territory yet, but she can feel Pippa spark up against her.

Her heart no longer speaks of promise. She cannot understand what it says, as it flutters and quivers. It is a curious thing, and Hecate lifts her head – lazily, drowsily – to search for answers. But Pippa’s eyes are closed, her features at ease and so Hecate doesn’t dare ask. Too afraid to break the magic they are weaving. Instead she watches her, her palm now resting flat on her belly. It rises and falls with every breath she takes. Her eyes catch on her lashes, so long and dark. Cling to her bottom lip as Pippa’s teeth sometimes do when she is lost in thought. She counts every freckle. The new and the old.

“You are like the sun goddess,” she tells, her tongue loosened by the intoxicating path of her thoughts. She is drunk on her. That thought makes her chuckle.

Pippa’s lids flutter open and reveal smouldering brown eyes. Calm. Content. Filled with something else Hecate can’t quite place. But she knows it affects her, coils something tight lower and lower yet. Something that tingles and burns, that demands and insists.

It takes a conscious effort to breathe.

“If that is true, then you were made in the image of our moon goddess Selene.”

Pippa props herself up on one elbow and extends her other hand to tug a curl from behind her ear. Hecate feels it tumbling down; a waterfall of dark silk that nearly matches Pippa’s of golden threads. Time hangs suspended between them. A blink of an eye worth an eternity.

“Two halves to make a whole,” Pippa tells her solemnly.

It’s a moment she cannot forget. It lives and aches and throbs still in the dead of night.

Then brave fingers cradle the back of her head and draw her in until she drowns, drowns, drowns in her mouth. All sweetness and honey. Their noses push into each other until they find the angle, the rhythm that suits them. Lips give and take, impatient, both of them. The spark ignites anew, travels the length of her spine and disappears. No, that can’t be right. Because she can feel it crackle in her bones. Gasps punctuate the silence, quiet and raw, uniting them where words fail. Hecate can feel the tremor as it passes through her, embraces the echo that resonates from Pippa’s own body. One and the same. Different yet complete. Sun and moon.

When they finally break away, they are still lying in the grass. Hecate is almost surprised to find them there. Arms and legs intertwined, they huddle closer as the wind picks up around them. The sky has darkened, the clouds multiplied.

It’s a sign, Hecate thinks and clings on tighter to her friend. Because she cannot bear to walk in murky twilight now that she has tasted promise. But she knows instinctively that without Pippa everything will always be a little dimmer, a little less safe.

“Tell me about your magic again,” she pleads, “the magic of colours.”

“It isn’t _mine,_ technically,” Pippa points out with a chuckle that is light and carefree. “It is ancient magic, Hecate. People just don’t…bother with it, or they don’t think to update it.”

She knows without looking that there’s a smile on her lips, one that begs for its twin to appear. But Hecate cannot bring her lips to comply.

“Tell me?” she begs again, her voice little more than a whisper.

And Pippa’s arms tighten around her, bring her closer until she can feel herself disappear once more. They’re like a fortress, a protective spell that shield her from harm.

_She is strength and kindness_ , Hecate thinks, _but what am I_?

“Well, colours are everywhere. They’re an expression of nature, nature that celebrates life and death as we humans do. So witches and wizards centuries ago sought to harness that power, to pay tribute to everything we have won from nature. They used crushed seeds and flower petals to paint their skin, applied feathers and berries to their broomsticks. Each and every one representative of something. Brown for the earth, for food and shelter. Gold for prosperity and health. Orange for vitality and joy, and grey and silver for contemplation, intuition and stability.”

Hecate listens patiently, finds a certain comfort in Pippa’s voice that doesn’t drone on but captures her and lifts her up.

Until she remembers green.

Green like the grass they are lying in, like the trees that sway around them in the breeze. Because green, green is for daring what you oughtn’t.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- thanks for your lovely comments and kudos. I know this one is different. :)  
> \- next chapter will take us back to the masked ball!


	3. Red

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She is still at the masked ball and mere steps away from Pippa.

Time is passing by. Hecate can hear it ticking away in the secure shell of her pocket watch, second after second. And Pippa is still dancing, embracing herself, igniting smiles on the faces of others, as she once ignited…

Hecate shakes her head to clear it of the thoughts that are circling her like vultures, picking at the flesh that forms her only protection now. Forces herself to focus until the ominous clicking of her timepiece subsides and the sound of the music around her swells to the fore. She isn’t certain that she likes music. It is not reliable. Her forehead creases into a frown as she takes it all in, this…this tune that has everybody swaying. She knows that it has a structure, a rhythm, a key and yet…where usually she finds comfort she meets unease. Because there’s a dynamic to music that is palpable, that subtly alters every time. She can feel it making waves in the ballroom, whipping up the crowd until they are little more than mindless automatons that swing and rock and move.

One person’s love song is another one’s requiem, she thinks, her eyes clinging to Pippa’s frame all the while. Thinks she can almost feel her energy. Water to fire and still as warm as the sun.

“Come, Hecate, I promised I’d introduce you to some interesting witches.”

She startles violently when Ada loops an arm around her and pulls her gently into the throng. Her heart is beating louder now than her watch. It’s as though she’s lost her footing and slipped deep into a crevice from where there is no escape. With every breath her stomach expands against the wall of people that are closing in on either side of her until laughter and words cracks it open.

Her eyes whiz through the crowd as she talks - dim pleasantries that she knows she is expected to return - but it’s as though she’s disappeared, that blonde-haired woman in the golden dress. As if she never existed in the first place.

Hecate’s fingers tap against her watch; harshly, sharply, with enough force to leave marks but the time piece perseveres. It has weathered many storms. She lets Ada take charge once more, listens on in awe as she navigates her way through bland conversation and polite compliments. Monotonous, soothing in its own way. She can feel herself starting to fade, beginning to grow invisible, the dull ache in her chest the only reminder that she is still here, present and alive.

It’s the sharp consonants of “Pentangle” that jolt through her like an electric current, that bring her back. She can feel them tingling in her spine which straightens and stiffens within an instant. Snaps back in time to hear a red-head say “Yes, of course she must be here tonight.”

“Who is Miss Pentangle?” Ada inquires politely and Hecate’s eyes snap to her, then back again. She wears that dreamy smile that means she’s puzzled but happily so, as if blissful ignorance is a state to aspire to.

Because Hecate cannot believe that Ada hasn’t heard of Pentangle’s, the newest of witching academies as the red-head cheerfully supplies, because even she has, although she’s made it a point to ignore any and every shred of information that’s related to Pippa.

After years of silent emptiness the space around her suddenly starts to fill with her presence, her achievements, her audacity - as the other witches keep saying. It’s painful this imprint of her that their words leave on her heart. The thoughts, the knowledge she has suddenly acquired, that begin to paint a picture of a life she walked away from. Happy children in a beautiful castle taught by an accomplished witch who doesn’t have a care in the world.

It’s funny how both pride and regret taste tangy. Bitterness is reserved only for the very pit of her stomach.

“Did I hear my name?”

It’s like a rush of magic, Hecate thinks, or like a warm embrace when Pippa manifests by her side, the skirt of her dress swaying back and forth.

Clumsy fingers adjust her mask on her face even as she casts her eyes to the floor and away from the path of the brown ones. It’s futile, this disappearing act, but there’s a part of her that still foolishly hopes Pippa won’t recognise her, will think her part of the furniture as most of those around her.

“Yes, as a matter of fact we were talking about you, Miss Pentangle. I have to admit that I hadn’t heard much about your academy yet. An embarrassing oversight as I have now learned. What a pleasure it is to meet you!”

It is Ada who takes the reins, who sweeps aside the more unpleasant details of the conversation as though they did not happen. Hecate had always thought of this as a form of kindness…she isn’t so sure anymore now.

She can feel Pippa shift by her side as though digesting this. A tremor passes between them as her magic rises, then evens out once more. It makes her shiver, this undisclosed intimacy; it causes an eruption of goose flesh along her collarbones.

“And you must be Miss Cackle? I can’t quite tell with that mask.”

Pippa’s tone has softened also, is smooth and warm and altogether contained. Professional in a way that doesn’t disallow kindness. And Hecate’s treacherous heart starts to flutter in her chest, animated by the admiration she feels.

“Cackle’s is quite the institution in the witching community, of course” Pippa proceeds once Ada has nodded in agreement. “I have adopted some of your values for my own school. We open our doors to anyone who shows magical potential, boys and girls alike. And we offer special extra-curricular activities to those who need a little more attention or those who might benefit from a non-traditional approach.”

“Modern magic,” one of the other witches contributes and Hecate can feel it smack against Pippa’s golden dress like a fist of mud.

She winces, her head jerking up just in time for their eyes to meet. Brown and hazel.

Her fingers still around her pocket watch that holds all of time now. She can hear it ticking away once more as she plunges headfirst into Pippa’s gaze. It drowns out the music, the laughter, the voices. As if only they exist. As though a decade or more has not slipped through her fingers.

It’s miraculous, Pippa’s composure. The subtle nuances of her surprise. And then she smiles; it is so small and gentle a thing that Hecate is almost convinced she’s imagined it. A smile that speaks of hope which cannot be after everything she has done. It squeezes the air from her lungs and leaves them filled with a strange kind of longing instead.

With a surprising disregard for the entirety of the ballroom, Pippa parts her lips and utters the one thing that is bound to be her undoing. “Hecate? Is that you?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- thanks for your continued support :)   
> \- I couldn't stop them from meeting any longer


	4. Pink

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pink insists. Tw: abuse (mentioned, not explicitly described).

When Hecate thinks about her life, she can almost neatly divide it in two. But no matter how neat the halves, that which is contained within them is messy and complicated, knotted together like a spool of red yarn she cannot possibly untangle. Ariadne does not bestow her grace upon her.

Her youth is made up of tiny moments that pass by in rapid succession. The next beating always comes too soon, the next bruise she has to hide. And every memory with Pippa is tainted by the sense that it will be over much too quickly, that there will never be enough. Sometimes when she looks at herself in the mirror, she can see a girl that’s grown much too fast, that’s all limbs and awkward angles, because she was never granted the time to really inhabit herself.

Her adulthood, on the other hand, is filled with nothing but the murky waters of seconds, minutes and hours. Each one a drop in the ocean that’s already drowning her. Agonisingly slow this drip, drip, drip of her life. 

She is sitting on Pippa’s bed, in Pippa’s room, surrounded by Pippa’s things when she wonders – not for the first time – where the time has gone. The end of their education is almost in sight and the uncertainty of the future is looming dark and eerily ahead. With pinched fingers she arranges the book that’s propped against her knees and finds her eyes wandering to her friend who is sitting at her dresser.

It’s been a week now since she started taking note. Well, really taking note. There had been stray summer days in which she’d been quite mesmerised by the way Pippa’s hair shimmered like golden rays of sunshine or the ease with which she applied colour to her nails. But it isn’t until now that she starts paying attention to the other subtle changes. Ribbons braided into her hair, for example, simple rings or glistening bracelets. But none quite as apparent as the pink colour she is applying to her lips or the red powder that’s dusting her cheeks.

And Hecate doesn’t know how to feel about this development, knows how much it means to Pippa who is starting to find herself within the colours, within her own magic that does not live and die by the rules of The Code. Knows that she, herself, takes pleasure in watching her; nimble fingers finding their way around new tools, Pippa’s eyes shining brightly when she discovers something she particularly approves of. A secret thrill to observe.

She can feel her longing stir inside her, hungry and restless and desperate. It tickles the tips of her fingers, threatening to break free if not hastily subdued. And subdued it must be, because it distracts her from the other side of her feelings. The darker, more terrible ones. That Pippa who already glows with beauty and joy will become a beacon for other girls endeavouring to be just like her. That she will lose sight of her, plain old Hecate who isn’t brave or daring or kind. That she will move on as indeed she must, because Hecate always knew she wasn’t meant to linger. That goodness like that was never meant to be hers.

Already she aches at every smile she hasn’t created, at every familiar touch bestowed upon someone else’s arm. It spells the end of the hugs, the soft and tender kisses that sometimes escalate into something much wilder Hecate can’t quite wrap her head around. It spells the end of safety.

Hecate knows she cannot hold her once she is ready to leave, because she is like a butterfly that needs to stretch its wings. And Hecate is…well…she cannot even find an appropriate analogy. Knows only that she feels wrong and selfish and horrible for wanting to claw at Pippa to stay, to bind her and hold her.

Fear bubbles up from her stomach, burning like acid, swelling into panic that constricts her throat until she can only gasp for air and clutch a hand over her mouth.

“Hecate? In Merlin’s name, are you alright?” Pippa has abandoned her dresser, her powders and make-up, has somehow made it to her bed and is grasping at her hands.

“Yes…I…” Words are scrambled together into letters that make no sense. But the chorus of angry accusations continues to ring through her head. _How dare you think like that? How awful!_ _How wrong!_ “I forgot to breathe.”

Nails dig into her skin and abruptly pause when there’s no pain, when she remembers that Pippa is holding her hands and she’s hurting her rather than herself.

“Don’t lie to me, Hiccup. I know that’s not it.” She cups her face now gently, examines her eyes and Hecate is certain she can see the wall of tears that’s growing behind her lids.

_You look beautiful and it scares me._

“Hiccup?”

_You’ll leave me._

“Hecate, talk to me. Did I do something to upset you?”

_No! No, you’re…_

“Miss Broomhead? Your mother?”

Frantic fingers are trailing over her skin, lift up her blouse, search for bruises or burns. But Hecate remains trapped in the prison of her mind, staring ahead unspeaking, the words caught painfully in her throat. The prospect of uttering them even more agonising.

“Hecate, please just talk to me.”

She’s being forced to look at Pippa now, blinks once, twice against the salt that’s clinging to her lashes, burning in her eyes until that familiar face swims into view. Brown eyes wide and frightened. Terrified.

“I feel like I’m losing you,” she whispers. Finally breaks free.

She can watch the words hit her, finds it miraculous when Pippa doesn’t even flinch. “Nonsense.” She smiles at her and it’s warm like the sun, fond and reassuring. “You’ll never lose me.”

“But all this change…” She gestures feebly.

There’s a sheen of pink on Pippa’s lips and pink glistening too from her lids. It makes her eyes stand out even more. Hecate’s heart flutters treacherously.

“Doesn’t mean anything. And definitely nothing bad.” Her forehead is creased into frown lines now. “I’m having fun…I’m discovering…well…me. Come morning it’ll be gone in anyway. You know the rules.”

And Hecate does, but that hardly matters because the whispers, the rumours will be enough to draw more people in, to push her out eventually.

“Don’t you like it?” Pippa’s frown is deepening as she cocks her head to one side. And darkness fills Hecate’s body with shame once more.

“You’re…beautiful,” she manages, her voice husky with affection and hoarse with heartache.

She doesn’t notice the blush that colours Pippa’s cheeks, the glow that she created.

“And so are you. Why do you think I’m having you over while I do this? Because I want _you_ to see. I want you to see me, Hecate.”

There’s a familiarity to those words that throbs and aches, though she cannot say why.

“But…I…” Timid sounds she cannot possibly have produced.

“You’re mine. Aren’t you?” Pippa insists.

“Yes?” It’s a question for permission. If Pippa could see her darkness, surely she would reject her.

“Well then, I am yours. And I won’t ever leave you.”

Perhaps she can sense the protest that’s about to slip past her lips, because Pippa covers her mouth with her own, melts her, slows down her pulse with lazy, gentle kisses that require deep breaths in between. She caresses and soothes her until the blackness within clears, leaving only warmth and contentment and something else…something unquestionably pink that insists on her goodness.

 

 


	5. Red

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hecate tries to flee...but she can't keep running.

Everybody is looking at them. She can feel their eyes needling her skin, small pin-pricks of curiosity that plunge deeper and deeper and deeper until they threaten to uncover that which she has so painstakingly sewn shut years ago. Pippa is expectant, her anticipation palpable against her own body that tremors and quivers with no modicum of control. Ada is glancing between them, from one to the other, with every whip of the head morphing more and more into the owl she has chosen as her costume. It’s almost amusing, but Hecate has no taste for humour right now.

She cannot bear these eyes that are watching her, always watching her, examining her every move, lurking in the shadows. So she turns on her heels and flees, stalks away as quickly as her dignity permits it. Abandons the flock that bursts into badly subdued chatter in her absence. Music rises and swells and then crashes down on her like waves. Swaying bodies make progress harder. Even though she’s already on the other side of the ballroom, a good twenty paces away from Pippa. Even though nobody else is paying her heed anymore. Too enraptured are they in the dance and the festivities. Even the Great Wizard himself is occupied, entertaining guests at the head of his table, unaware of any disturbance.

Hecate can almost breathe again. Sharp and short and staggering. She can almost make herself believe there will be no consequences, no questions from Ada she cannot thwart. But Pippa’s sigh, one small exhalation of her grief and disappointment resides in her ear. Refuses to fade or to be shaken off. Niggles and lingers and begs to be addressed. But she cannot, not yet and certainly not here where it is paramount that she’d be professional and together. Her position in these circles of witches and wizards is still unsteady, and she could not bear to lose her way once more.

It takes a surprisingly long time before Ada manifests behind her and gently touches her elbow to get her attention. She can tell that it’s Ada by the roughness of her fingertips that have seen and experienced much, by her magic that after all these years still feels like a comfort. Like something solid and dependable even when reality hasn’t always reflected that.

“I did not know you knew Miss Pentangle,” she begins and Hecate is certain she can feel her stiffen. There’s a question tucked away in that statement.

“We attended school together.”

It’s as much as she trusts herself to say, but Ada’s eyes which are wide and understanding almost make her regret that too. Thankfully, the older witch seems to recognise her discomfort – for it is discomfort that she projects outwardly, rather than the excruciating mixture of heartache and regret she feels within – and gently pats her elbow again.

“Well, no matter. The night is still young and we must enjoy ourselves.”

Hecate glances with longing at the great oak doors that spell freedom, then succumbs to the inevitable and nods her head in agreement. She cannot run anymore. Her feet are sore and her soul is weary. And so she permits Ada to shepherd her back into the crowd as though she’s a flimsy, mindless young thing. She’s only grateful that Ada expects her to dance and not to speak. She’d much rather twist her ankles than blister her mouth.

The music does little to buoy her spirits, but before long it slips under her skin, its rhythm beating as one with her heart, urging her on, legs moving on their own accord. A ring of witches, bigger in number than an ordinary coven forms, dances together, rejoices. Joint hands worshipping the sun and the longest day of the year. She still doesn’t trust the music, its unreliable nature, but is glad anyhow that it dulls the thoughts that would otherwise hammer angrily against her skull.

For a few blessed minutes there is only absolute emptiness, blissful and cool, like water on a scorching, all-consuming burn. But it doesn’t last, it never does.

Before long, the faces that have blurred together develop contours and features. Finely-powdered skin, sharp jawline that still looks soft somehow. Pink lips framed by a golden mask. Brown eyes solely resting on her, pleading, searching with unconstrained curiosity.

Hecate focuses on Ada’s hand in her own, on that familiar magic that saw her through some dark times. But Pippa’s energy is unshakeable, warm and inviting and so acutely familiar she cannot resist its pull. Wants to let herself fall instead, to melt and mingle until her magic thrums like another heartbeat in her chest.

Arms loop around each other as the circle of witches turns, propelling them ever closer together until Pippa is two steps, one, half…a breath, a sigh, a gasp away. Her hand now in Hecate’s, cool and steady and reassuring.

Her eyes feast on her moving form, her slender fingers, her skin with a kind of hunger that’s utterly shameful. After everything she has done. After the choices she has made.

They gravitate together naturally, mutually. Bodies moving and shifting until the witches’ circle no longer includes them, until they form their own union. Their own circle. Arms wrapped around each other, no sliver of daylight, of space to distinguish where one woman starts and the other ends.

After all these years, Pippa still feels like home. The realisation is so sharp and true that it manifests in her lashes. Minuscule beads of pain and regret.

“Don’t cry, Selene, don’t run. Your days are yet to come.”

It’s little more than a whisper, but one that speaks of promise and hope. Like a thumb brushing away her tears. Like a fond embrace. It coaxes the stiffness from her bones and eases them into each other.

“Pippa…I…”

She starts to speak, words whispered against the shell of her ear, whispered into the space between two heartbeats. They stir and unravel, threatening to stretch and expand into something neither of them can contain.

“Allow me just this dance…this dance first, Hecate.”

She cannot deny her, doesn’t want to in fact, lets herself fall into the crook of her neck where the scent of her skin enthrals her senses. All hunger stilled, all reason left behind.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- your feedback and kudos are lovely! :)  
> \- next chapter will shed some light on Hecate's decision


	6. Blue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blue is for cruel bargains.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- tw: abuse, tw: homophobia   
> \- this is pretty angsty and upsetting. This is the decision Hecate has regretted her entire life. Please don't read if you feel it  
>  might upset you!!  
> \- thanks for your comments and kudos, we've now reached the halfway point! Leave some thoughts and brighten my day? :)

There is a time – though in hindsight it’s little more than the beat of a wing or the blink of an eye – in which she tastes happiness, in which even those petty concerns she had earlier disappear. In that time, she is filled with something bright and warming, like sunshine itself. Darkness only lives at the fringes of her vision. For the first time in her life, her days are brimming with love and friendship. Because Pippa is everything, her most loyal ally, her confidante and lover. No matter how much she flourishes at midnight feasts or coven gatherings, she remains hers. Wholly and completely. And Hecate learns to embrace herself. Just a little. Just enough to not feel any less when Pippa smiles at someone else. Just enough to get by on her own. It’s a start, however small or tentative. Like the first brave flight of a baby bird. A little bit clumsy, a little bit unsteady but courageous nonetheless. That’s why she should know that it wouldn’t last. That darkness would find a way to infiltrate her body like poison until every last piece of flesh would be consumed and darkness would pour like ink from her veins.

It starts with a whisper, as most things do. A whisper which expands into a glance, a look, a touch. She can feel it on her skin, the disdain and displeasure, crawling like ants, scuttling all over her. It’s familiar even in its discomfort. The rejection and disdain. She stares right back at it as she once looked into her mother’s eyes wondering why instead of love she only found loathing. But these eyes aren’t blue, blue and piercing and cold. They’re brown, like molten chocolate, brown and soft, brown like Pippa’s. Pippa who’s always ever spoken of her mother, of both of her parents, in affectionate terms. And yet here she is, Mrs Pentangle, looking at Hecate like a speck of dirt on an otherwise clean carpet. It’s a wordless exchange, communicated by looks and touches. Her protective embrace, the lingering gaze that passes over Pippa’s shoulder, shielding her from the disapproval Hecate can so plainly see. And so she drops her shoulders and nods her head in silent agreement as she ducks out of the Great Hall that’s filled with parents and teachers. Because, like Mrs Pentangle, she only wants to shelter that which is dearest to her.

The woods offer her sanctuary. The sea of green, the swaying, creaking trunks don’t shun her for her looks, her skill, her preferences. They don’t bend or break under her touch but remain towering around her, proud and firm. In their midst, she begins crafting a talisman for Pippa. Something of her to have and to hold when they are no longer. Because the end is coming. Hecate can feel it in her bones. The first pentangle she creates is out of wood. It’s an experiment in witchcraft, to see how the twigs comply with the magic that crackles from her fingertips. It’s a little clumsy, has bumps and awkward angles. But she keeps it nonetheless. The final charm is made from silver, crafted with great care and effort and time. The different strands criss-crossing like the twigs of the initial attempt. A little piece of forest, of safety to rest on Pippa’s skin. A perfect alchemy of substance, colour and intention. A sliver of moonshine to grace the sun.

* * *

 

Her mother arrives a few hours before the broomstick water-skiing display. All rigid elegance and cool beauty. Her hair is drawn up into a bun, every last strand pulled tight against her scalp. She wasn’t meant to come, Hecate thinks when she finds her in front of her door. She never visits. Her magic fluctuates nervously as she invites her inside. Her hands tremble when she shows her her essays and grades.

Apprehension pools at the base of her neck. Fear surges through her body. She is searching for clues, for tiny details that will help her deduce why her mother is here. She wouldn’t have come to cheer her on. No, something must have happened.

“By Merlin, girl, control yourself!”

The first snap is dreadfully familiar. A slip of the mask that she was anticipating all along. Her magic recoils as if strangled, withdraws so deeply she ends up feeling dry and brittle. Dangerously close to cracking.

“Oh, I’m sorry, Hecate. It’s just that I’ve had such marvellous news, I don’t want you to waste the opportunity.”

Shoulders stiff with tension, she curls her fingers against her palm until her nails are digging into her skin, then finally brings herself to meet her mother’s gaze. “What news?”

Her voice wavers under the weight of it all. The control, the sickening fear, the apprehension.

“Miss Broomhead has been so impressed with your work that she has put in a good word for you with the Great Wizard himself.”

Her face contorts into a smile she knows is expected of her. Gratitude, humility, utmost devotion to the craft.

“That’s very kind of her.” She hesitates to say more, fears that even one step will see her permanently trapped. Panic roils through her stomach, leaves her clammy and out of breath.

“Indeed. She is doing you a great favour. The Great Wizard has agreed to take you on as his potion-maker apprentice. If you make the most of this, Hecate, you will rise in the ranks of the council. You will supply the whole ministry itself if you hone your skills!”

Something breaks through the mist of trepidation like rays of sunshine on a cloudy day. She recognises it faintly as hope, can feel it coat her tongue like sugar. Deceptively sweet, for the sting is still about to come.

“I would be honoured, mother.”

She casts her eyes down towards the floor and thinks about Pippa. The images appear by themselves, both of them successful, side by side. She brewing potions – the one activity she never tires of – and Pippa passing on her knowledge to young girls and boys.

With hindsight she knows it’s her smile that gives it away. The one that naturally brightens her features and makes her eyes shine. Without force, but with deep affection.

“However,” her mother begins again and this single word cuts her more deeply than any of her previous actions, sharper still than the hands that wrap around her wrists, the nails that puncture her flesh. “You’d be foolish to think this a gift.” Foolish indeed. Foolish, desperate, treacherous heart. “This is a last resort to save you from the disgusting path you have started to tread.”

When the honey melts on her tongue and dries out her mouth, all she can taste is vinegar. Of betrayal. Of all-consuming rage and bitterness which she must suppress.

“Oh don’t look at me like that. I know you’re no longer innocent. But trust me, such relations just won’t do, Hecate.” Her hands are tightening around her wrists, squeezing and strangling until she can feel her heart beat in her mother’s palms. Raw and exposed. Vulnerable. “They are not welcome in this community. And if your own decline means so little to you, if the reputation of your family holds so little worth, you must do it for her. Miss Pentangle has a bright future ahead of her. Do you really wish to see her ruined?”

Tears are stinging her eyes as the images fade and twist. Into darkness. Into a kind of loneliness Pippa could never survive. Shunned from her circle of friends, from her loving family. Ridiculed by teachers and students alike. Even her mother looking at her with disdain and all because of Hecate. Because of her decrepit feelings and hideous needs. No, Pippa must be sheltered, just as her mother has done. Pippa deserves a chance at happiness.

“I didn’t think so.” Her mother’s breath is hot and sweet, tilting her insides until they nearly spill on the floor between them. “I knew you’d see reason, Hecate. Now go and enjoy your frivolous display. And do say goodbye to Miss Pentangle. Because there will be no more of that once the Great Wizard has learned of your decision. Do you understand me?”

Her chin trembles under the weight of unshed tears. She nods meekly.

The pressure around her wrists eases and then she’s alone again. Alone in the dark.

A whimper escapes her lips as she doubles over, wrapping slender arms around a mortally wounded body that trembles and shakes uncontrollably. Black and blue, like bruises under her skin. Black and blue, like cruel bargains.


	7. Red

Her nose is tracing her skin, from neck to shoulder and back up again. Her lips embrace the hairs that rise to meet them. Pippa is warm from head to toe, of that she is certain, smiles when she feels her pulse accelerate. Faster than the time piece that’s ticking away against her chest, faster still than her own heart that’s quivering and dancing. Her magic unfurls from her core and settles around them both like a cocoon, sheltering them from prying eyes, from looks and words that can be sharp like daggers.

It’s sweet, this sense of homecoming, but also salty. Salty like the tears that battle past the confines of Pippa’s mask, that drip down her cheeks and splash into small puddles upon Hecate’s hair and temple. A perfectly imperfect balance that leaves no bitter aftertaste.

No sound escapes either of them as Hecate alters their position, drawing Pippa into her arms now, cradling her. But her lips, Pippa’s lips, move wordlessly against her, grazing her bare collarbones, her sensitive flesh, singeing her with heat. How painful it is to feel alive, Hecate thinks, how beautiful too.

It’s only when the music ends, in that brief pause that’s as deep as a ravine, that everything catches up with her. That they’re no longer seventeen, that they have professions and reputations of their own, that they are standing intimately embracing each other in the middle of the Great Wizard’s Grand Palais.

“Pippa,” she begins, righting the other woman who is uncharacteristically rigid, unyielding even against the gentle force that is trying to manoeuvre her away. “Pippa, I need some air.”

It’s a half-truth and the best she can manage in the moment. It’s a little bit like running and a little bit like staying. A compromise.

Pippa’s eyes have dried but her lashes are still wet, her butterfly mask which is painted in all the colours of the rainbow is slightly askew.

“Go,” Pippa nods, “if you step outside and follow the westward-facing corridor, you’ll-“

“Come to a staircase that leads to a balcony. I am familiar with this building.”

A question simmers in Pippa’s eyes then slowly subsides.

“Go,” she says again, hooking their fingers together long enough for a squeeze. She makes it look easy, Hecate thinks as she turns her back and starts walking, something that’s obviously so hard.

Her legs are heavy like lead as she stiffly brushes past people, can feel Ada’s eyes at the back of her neck, following her with some concern. She can feel all the magic that’s pent up in the room, all the magic that’s flowing freely too. Like ribbons in the air, like a celebration of their very essence.

She still isn’t sure that she fits, but she knows that she belongs with Pippa. Pippa who graciously let her go despite her own needs. Pippa who is kinder and stronger than she’d anticipated. And she must tell her so, will tell her so. In just another moment. Once she has thought and processed and drawn air into lungs that feel parched and burning.

The clicking of her heels mixes with the whisper of her long silver gown on the marble floor. Duplicates of herself stride alongside her in the mirrors that line the walls, rigid but determined and with surprising elegance. The Grand Palais has not changed much since her apprenticeship days, but her feelings towards it have. Where once she was dazzled by the striking architecture, the many archways and columns of alabaster, those gilded mirrors and sweeping staircases, she now only sees unnecessary decadence. Style over substance.

The balcony door creaks gently under the weight of her magic and when Hecate steps out into the air it’s not as cool as she desires, but mild and soft. It dances around her shoulders and lingers lightly until some of the last tension leaves her body.

This is what Litha should be about, she thinks, the sun, the wind, the craft and nature. Not some excuse for a frivolous indoor feast.

She exhales her irritation out into the night and steps closer to the edge of the balcony, placing her hands on its smooth railing. Finely painted nails are tapping away, sometimes slower, sometimes faster, dictated by the ebb and flow of her thoughts.

She feels her before she has the chance to speak, her familiar rush of magic that brightens the air around her with specks of gold. That is unique like glowing, fractured particles which still somehow form a whole. Hecate tilts her head to face her when she finally does materialise.

“I’m sorry, Hiccup. I know you were asking for…Well…” Shadows flicker across her eyes and tug her mouth into an uncharacteristically firm line. “I wanted to give you space, but I feared you might just leave again.”

It doesn’t sting as much as she expects, only a little because Pippa looks as though she’s bracing herself for a storm. Her fingers contort above her abdomen like they used to do when they were young. Self-conscious. Nervous. Not so common a habit, yet not quite such a rare occurrence either if only one invested enough time to observe.

“I had hoped you would follow. Actually.”

She chooses her words carefully, her voice softening. Far less steel, far less Hardbroom. Much more Hecate. Clumsy. Gangly. Black and blue still on the inside from the mistakes she’s made.

Hope brightens Pippa’s eyes as they skim over her. Speechless, for once. Their magic unites between them before their bodies do. Drawn together like old friends. Embracing each other like lovers. Mixing and melting and forming something entirely unprecedented.

“I’m afraid I still don’t fare well in crowds.” Her eyes catch on the pentangle charm of silver that sits in the hollow of her throat. A sliver of moonlight surrounded by the golden sun. To see her wear it after all this time makes her throat constrict and her heart brim with memories.

“And I still tire of them more easily than one might expect,” Pippa says, lifting up her hands on either side of her face to draw off the mask. She blinks a couple of times as her features adjust to the lack of weight, then meets her eyes again. Brown and warm with flecks of light.

Hecate feel her lips part as she takes her in, this aged version of her closest companion. Even more beautiful in her maturity.

“I…owe you an apology.”

Again, the words unfurl with great care. Spoken like someone she once knew a lifetime ago. But Pippa only smiles, bravely, despite the heartache that shimmers in her eyes, smiles and hooks their pinkies together.

“I have made many regrettable decisions in the past,” Hecate pushes on, finding the power within herself, within her magic to be bare and vulnerable. “But none quite so foolish as to underestimate you. Pippa. There…” Here her voice trembles the tiniest bit. “There are many unpredictable forces of nature, but I should have known you would stand honest and true. Even in the face of adversity. I should have trusted you.”

And just when she feels the flood of tears threatening to break the dam, Pippa is there to embrace her. She wraps herself around her, unafraid to catch the force of the emotion and holds her until the stream subsides into a trickle. Gentle fingers remove her own mask then and cup her face.

“I’ve missed you, Hiccup. Will you tell me now what happened?”

And Hecate finds herself nodding.

 


	8. Violet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Violet is for brute force.

She is an adult when she enters the Grand Palais for the first time, but only just. Has seventeen years of experiences on her back, good and bad. She no longer occupies herself with her family, cannot, because every time she looks into her mother’s blue eyes, she finds remnants of Pippa, like little shards of memories strewn carelessly here and there, puncturing her chest all the same. And when her footsteps echo from the marble floor, it is to the march of freedom that beats in her heart.

She doesn’t yet realise that there are some chains impossibly long and terribly difficult to break. That they can snake around ankles unseen and yank her to the ground with force, or wrap around her wrists to hold her trapped and immobile. They tie her down with words and whisper of a love she never received, unconditional and unwavering. The love of a mother. They speak only of the dark, the pain, the hopeless, of that which she is lacking until she trips over herself. No longer a daughter to anyone, no longer a friend either.

For all its splendid festivities and stately visits, the Grand Palais is an empty place that feeds on the magic of those who sometimes pass through its great halls. It is a place of momentous decisions and grave sacrifice and as such Hecate embraces it initially. She is committed to the craft, determined to learn under the code that now dictates her life. She finds that thirst for knowledge and passion for furthering her skills is enough to nourish her.

But before long the novelty wears off.

It’s heart-breaking, the way Pippa appears in everything she does. She’s there in the rich orange hues of the setting sun, in every potion she creates, stirs and bottles. Her smile streaks across the horizon at dawn and her many stories, her hopes and wishes and plans, wrap around her at night. It isn’t just that without her she feels clumsy in her interaction with others, it’s that she finds others to be lacking too. They cannot quench her need for the kind of understanding that existed between them once.

And it isn’t their fault. Hecate doesn’t make it easy to be liked or appreciated. There are hurdles she places in her own path, sometimes consciously, other times not so consciously. Barbed wire runs along her skin and everything that’s tender and raw she tucks away deep inside her, forgoes words in favour of actions. Sharp bones, tense muscles, rigid posture. Soft eyes now coolly appraising, calculating instead.

It takes great endurance to cut to her heart, to make her believe in safety once more. And often she feels it’s not a task anyone deserves to have, feels it’s not just to be tossed into this raging torrent of anger, fear and hopelessness with her.

She wishes she could be different.

It doesn’t take long before Pippa’s ghost starts following her to the Grand Palais. And Hecate tries to forget, forms a refrain in her mind that is meant to fortify her spirits. _She’s gone. She’s happy. You cannot reach out anymore._

But the consequences of her actions are not so easily silenced. They unfurl slowly and silently and with such subtlety that she does not notice at first. Is so removed from her own body that she cannot feel her magic change and alter. Not until it’s too late.

She is in the potions lab when it happens, preparing for her first examination. The room is bright and light and all wrong. Still, the steam that slowly spreads and the bubbling of the cauldrons fills her with strength. She is at ease here still, tufts of dark hair slipping from her braid. A little bit looser, a little bit more at home. Her sharp eyes soften as the liquid before her changes colour and the scent of rosemary fills the air. It tastes of freedom, she thinks. And that’s how it happens.

The taste, the word on her tongue lets her slip, abandoning that careful control she’s honed her whole life. Magic once simmering within her breaks free and overwhelms the fine concoction she’s been brewing. It floods the room, the entire east wing of the Grand Palais, finally stopped by the Great Wizard himself.

She tells herself it’s the shame that makes her clumsier, cannot yet face that everything she’s suppressed has taken on a life of its own, cannot yet accept that she is no longer in control.

The Great Wizard is kind at first, kind and patient. He has witnessed her potential and is determined to support her. But in the months that follow – months riddled by more incidents – his understanding wanes. There is disapproval, sharp and bitter, unsuccessfully disguised behind gentle words. And the whispers they grow, grow, grow…the stories of a young witch who has lost her way, who is so consumed by her own magic she can barely walk.

Hecate leaves before she is dismissed. Collects her belongings one night and abandons it all. Orphaned and alone she travels the country, cannot linger long before her magic surges her to another place. It takes months before she can stop the constant transferring, the need of her body to become one with the energy, to – for a second at a time – abandon her physical form to the rush, the flutter, the current. And she cannot deny how exhilarating it feels, to be wild and free, a rogue witch without rules or structure. Her own person at last with an aura that’s purling lilac and purple and violet with the brute force of her magic.

But her magic thirsts for more, burns itself with ruthless abandon. Sometimes in anger that ripples like waves around her. Anger like a cry in the night for that which she has lost. Mother, father, Pippa! _Pippa_!

Sometimes in sadness that paralyses her to the bone, that wraps itself around her like a skeleton cage of black wings that restrict and confine. Making it impossible to function, making even the tiniest flick of her stiff fingers impossible, as though all the magic within her has frozen and died.

Sometimes in yearning, in red hot desire that makes her plead and buck and writhe. Ecstasy deceptively sweet on her tongue for only a few fleeting moments before the sweeping emptiness claims her again.

Hecate passes Yule in the snow-covered Highlands, red-cheeked and wind-swept but still alive. She tries to sooth her spirit at Litha, wears colourful ribbons in her hair and dances, dances, dances until the world is spinning around her. It’s in Cornwall where she finds the stray kitten, or rather when she finds her. Morgana, she calls her, and she becomes her companion. A source of warmth and love in dark nights.

Because the joy is fading, even the ache of the unexpected. Because she has started to drift aimlessly, the rest of her life gaping wide like a bottomless abyss. Her magic still demands and craves and wants, always driven by the force of her emotions.

She tries to make herself dull inside, and as she proceeds to drift without purpose or direction, she starts to succeed. Greyness fills her like a sigh, like a heavy mist that shrouds her heart. She still moves from time to time, sometimes finds herself walking along coastlines or through fields of grass. But she no longer feels or connects, save for the black feline she cradles protectively in her arms.

One day she finds herself emerging from a forest, a large castle in front of her. It feels familiar somehow, she thinks, while her eyes take in the high towering walls and turrets. There’s magic here, she can feel it, can sense it pulling her closer, inviting her in. And she walks and walks, slowly but with purpose until a large gate opens up before her. There are screams and laughter in the courtyard beyond and little witches chasing each other around.

There are tears in her eyes she cannot yet understand. And there is Ada Cackle, although she doesn’t know that yet, stepping towards her, asking her if she’s lost. Offering her the one thing she has been yearning for in all these years she’s gone astray: a home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- I wanted to give Hecate a slightly different backstory this time. One that still explains why she is so focused on rules and  
>  the code. Will elaborate more in chapter 10.  
> \- this also starts my version of "After everything Ada has done for you". Again, more in chapter 10 :)  
> \- couldn't help but sneak Morgana in there somehow  
> \- finally, apologies for the delay. Currently flat hunting, so having less time for writing. But this is a fully planned story and  
>  I'll definitely finish the last 3 chapters. :) Thanks for your comments!


	9. Red

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- thank you for bearing with me still and leaving comments and kudos. We're nearly at the end :)

Time is quietly elusive from then on and it’s nice not to feel it ominously ticking away or seemingly standing still. It is better yet to be finding herself on this balcony with Pippa and sharing that which has separated them for so long.

Hecate talks about her mother in quiet, hushed tones that still expose the tender wound she has carried in her chest her entire life. A gaping hole where love should have been. She tells Pippa everything about that dreadful bargain she chose to accept, her lashes fanning over her eyes as she casts them down in shame. Still, she feels that somehow the wound is healing, not perfectly or beautifully, but like scar tissue firm and pale that will always remind her of her strengths and weaknesses alike. She can accept that, she thinks, and perhaps Pippa can too. Pippa who listens to this gulf of information with patience and warmth, who doesn’t interrupt her and only squeezes her hands or brings her closer to wipe away her tears.

So she tells her about the failed apprenticeship too, about the force of her magic that nearly drowned the whole East Wing, expects no judgement but perhaps some concern, some fear at her inability to control and contain. But instead Pippa giggles, softly and lightly so. A delightful sound that is regrettably stifled when she catches her eye.

“Oh, I’m sorry, Hiccup,” she hurries to say, clutching her hand to her heart. “I didn’t mean to laugh, and I don’t doubt that it must have been terrifying for you. But the thought of the Great Wizard’s face…” She dissolves into laughter once more. “And the potion dripping from those horribly gilded walls.”

And Hecate tries to maintain an embarrassed expression – because guilt still squirms in the pit of her stomach – but the corners of her mouth twitch higher and higher still until not shame, not unease, but uncontrollable giggles come spilling from her mouth as well. She hasn’t laughed like that in years, hasn’t felt quite so full either. Almost as if she’s made out of light and warmth and joy. She laughs until there’s tears in her eyes, until her stomach hurts and she starts hiccupping wildly as she once did as a child.

“It’s. Not.Funny.” She tries to press out. Every word punctuated by a fresh wave of hiccups.

And Pippa presses a hand to her lips and desperately struggles to sober her expression. Her “Of course not” fails to be convincing. But Hecate finds she doesn’t mind, not when her eyes shine like that, when her whole aura glows like sunshine itself.

“I’m sorry,” Hecate repeats after a good long while. “I should have told you then, not now. You were always kinder and stronger than me.”

At that Pippa’s face does grow more serious.

“I do wish you would have told me sooner,” she says slowly, her thumb brushing over her knuckles in an almost caress that makes it very difficult to focus all of a sudden. “But I cannot claim that your fears weren’t unfounded. My mother wasn’t proud when she discovered my feelings…” There’s a hurt there that knits her brows together, stubborn and persistent, that tugs her lips into a sad little curve. “She found it challenging to, shall we say, alter the image she’d had of me to the person I’d become. The beautiful girl in the pink dress with a strong, protective man by her side no longer existed. And it took years, Hecate, of learning and adjusting, of arguing at times over silly little things.”

She laughs softly then and it is so like Pippa, light and composed even in the face of hardship. Trying, always trying, to make the best of things.

“But we’re in a better place now. Maybe by founding Pentangle’s I’ve proven my strength to look after myself, I don’t know.” She chuckles again. “But what I mean to say is that you must stop viewing me as your competition.”

Hecate opens her mouth to protest, hands fumbling to bring Pippa closer. There’s a breathless fear that she’ll suddenly vanish again, that she has said too much. But Pippa silences her with a kiss that jolts through her like electricity, that grounds her altogether and leaves her gasping for this bruising familiarity. Soft, tender, teasing.

Her hand finds the back of her head and draws her in, red lipstick smudging pink until lips part and they breathe in each other. Bodies entangling until they are alight with frenzied energy.

“I am not better or stronger or braver than you,” Pippa whispers at long last. “It might have been too much back then had we still been together. I might have hurt or disappointed you.”

She wants to protest again but Pippa’s teeth drag across her bottom lip in a way that creates only a faint whimper.

“Please let us strive to acknowledge and navigate each other’s weaknesses, Hecate. We’ll be much better for it.”

And there’s no sense arguing now, she knows. Because there’s a truth to Pippa’s words she cannot deny, although she worries she will fail from time to time. Emptiness, fear and shame still form a whirlpool that swirls through her body. Allowing it to escape, entrusting Pippa to manage it without being drowned…well…it’ll require time.

“Now what do you say we get out of here and do something fun?” Pippa whispers mischievously, wrapping her arms around her neck until their foreheads are touching.

And Hecate finds herself falling into those soft, brown, youthful eyes that twinkle at her conspiringly. “Fun?” she repeats, not quite incredulously but somewhat baffled, her mind foggy and slow.

Her lips are tantalisingly close again and she can smell the faint scent of Witches Brew. Wants to discover if another kiss would make her taste it too.

“Well, something that’s more in the spirit of Litha.”

And Hecate’s thoughts wander, to lush meadows and colourful ribbons, to dresses – silver moonshine and golden rays of sun – that twirl and melt until they are one. Of fresh spring water and offerings of fruit. To the longest day of the year!


	10. Mother of Pearl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mother of pearl says "death,keep off".

Her life at Cackle’s begins in small episodes, her time divided between conversations with Ada and hours whiled away on her own. She remembers it well to this day, her first glimpse of the now familiar office with its plate of cream cakes, the vase with a forgotten rose in it, the beautiful wooden chair with its finely carved owls. But above all, she remembers that feeling of safety the office emits, not dark and ominous like she remembers her own schooldays, but filled with light.

* * *

 

“Sit,” Ada beckons her, touching the small of her back briefly with her palm, her eyes saddening when Hecate flinches. She is careful not to make that same mistake again. Instead offers her a cup of tea and Morgana a bowl of water who takes to the gesture more eagerly than her mistress.

Hecate can still see herself sitting there, stiff as a plank one minute, then folded in on herself the next. Her fingers always nervously playing with the hem of her dress as though she is much younger than her 22 years.

“What brings you to Cackle’s then?” Ada asks after a while, smiling fondly down at her from her seat behind the desk. As though it’s not the least bit peculiar that a strange young woman would show up at her school gates, as though she’s been expecting nothing else all day. She regards her with quiet patience and warmly twinkling blue eyes while Hecate sits staring blankly ahead.

Words are sluggish to come forth – it’s been so long, too long since she’s spoken to anyone but the black feline that’s curled up under her chair now, purring contently – her thoughts even slower to unravel. But remembrance stirs eventually. That she’s known of a school called Cackle’s Academy that was passed down a line of witches, from mother to daughter for many generations. That it’s always been known for its kind and lenient staff.

“Why?” she wonders, is startled to realise that she has said it out loud.

“Why what?” questions Ada gently, tilting her head to one side which makes her blonde hair frame her face softly.

“Why have you invited _me_ in?”

A pang of something – pain, guilt, remorse? – pinches the headmistress’ face into a drawn expression and Hecate casts her eyes down, afraid to have wounded already unintentionally.

“Because you looked so forlorn,” she answers calmly. “Like a young witch who’d lost her way…”

Hecate glances up nervously, a lump of unshed tears forming in her throat, glances up in time to catch Ada’s own gaze wandering towards a nearby picture frame. She contemplates fleetingly who she is looking at, thinking of.

“And I thought perhaps a warm room and a nice chat would help her get back on her feet. Or maybe there’s something else I can do?”

Hecate doesn’t understand it, not for a long, long time, why Ada chooses to help her of all people. It takes months and years to accept the kindness extended to her, understanding blossoming alongside it, of Ada’s all-too-soft heart and her desperate desire to mend another broken witch, her twin sister Agatha.

* * *

 

She stays on as a guest at first, repaying the headmistress in little deeds, like tending to the plants in the greenhouse and leaving fresh roses in the vase on the desk, or stocking up the potion supplies. She only interacts with Ada, however, is skittish and easily startled. Sounds overwhelm her, the young witches even more so, with their chatter and their laughter, with the magic that shoots out in bursts and spurts, uncontrolled still, temperamental. Like her own magic that stubbornly refuses to submit to her will.

She tries to hide it from Ada who has asked very little of her, save for her name and personal interests. But the racket that sometimes emanates from her room, the faint explosions that hark from Hollow Wood eventually draw the unwanted attention she’d so feared. So she isn’t surprised when one day Ada invites her along on a stroll, has already packed her few belongings together by the time they set off.

They walk around the periphery of the magnificent castle, woods and greenery flanking them on the right, a light wind drifting through their hair. It’s all too quiet, too peaceful to last. And with a sharp jolt she realises that she wants it to. That Cackle’s with all its noisy distractions and challenges, with its small group of quirky, albeit caring staff members has become her home. And tears shoot to her eyes and pain rolls frighteningly through her stomach until she thinks her magic will come crashing out of her soon. But it is then that Ada looks at her and stops.

“Dear Hecate, let it go. It’s agonising just feeling you struggle with it.”

“I’m…sorry?” she asks, can feel her brows shoot upwards.

“Whatever you’re afraid of, whatever you’re trying so hard to suppress needs to be released. You will kill yourself if you keep clinging on to it.”

And magic burns between her fingertips, sharp and biting. Joints tense in an effort to contain then crack under the force of the energy when it comes bursting out. Around them, Ada erects a bubble of protection, stands by her side as everything comes crashing to the fore once more.

It’s on that day that they start working together. It’s her who dedicates her time to the research of magical history, who finds sustenance and answers in The Code. She begins memorising all the rules of it and arranges her life accordingly. It is rigid and almost ascetic, this life, very nearly devoid of any pleasure or amusement. But it helps her find her feet. It provides a structure where previously there was only chaos.

It is Ada who listens and offers practical help, who lets her storm and rage when she needs to, who suggests she’d burn her energy by transferring more frequently than other witches. Still, it takes years before she masters it…before she masters herself completely.

* * *

 

In the summer that marks the turn of her fifth year at Cackle’s to her sixth, Ada invites her on another walk. Hecate hasn’t packed this time but the fear comes to life within an instant. She is so consumed by it that she doesn’t even notice how far she’s come.

At nearly 28, she carries herself more confidently though she cannot ban the tension from her muscles entirely. There’s an enviable fluidity to her magic too, a magic which she feels, hears and sees, which she embraces now.

“You know we are starting to lose teachers, Hecate, now that so many of them are wanting to retire.”

She nods, confused, trying to understand where this is going.

“And you have been invaluable to us, both in your work in the greenhouses and your undeniable knack for potions. So I would like you to take over the first year’s classes next term.”

“Classes?” she questions.

The invitation refuses to sink in. She cannot begin to think of herself as a teacher. Only in negative terms, perhaps. Like Mistress Broomhead, severe and strict, calculatingly mean at times. To be like Ada…warm and patient…inconceivable!

Inevitably, the idea brings with it whispers from the past. It speaks of another blonde-haired witch who always dreamed of guiding and instructing, who is in the process now of building her own school. Her heart constricts and with hard-won effort, she releases the memories in one deep breath, along with the snippets of information she’s caught in hallways or staff rooms. She abandons Pippa's ghost if only for a moment. 

“Yes, potions. We both know that you have an incredible aptitude for the subject, not to mention passion. So while Mrs Wolfsbane is still around, you could learn from her, grow accustomed to the curriculum and take over the first years. It won’t be long before we lose her too, but you’ll be prepared then to teach the other years as well."

Ada’s enthusiasm is nearly infectious, so much so that she can almost start to see herself in front of the girls. And there’s longing in her heart too. To do something meaningful again, to share her love for potions, to pass on the lessons she has learned from The Code. And Ada watches her knowingly, must have understood all along how slowly the days have started to grow tedious and grey again. How she was very nearly drifting aimlessly once more. The Code her only anchor but just as cruel a taskmaster that holds her tethered to her routine.

“You must accept yourself for who you are, Hecate. Both the good and the bad. You must, or otherwise fail to connect to others. Not because they don’t care about you, but because you will undermine yourself in such a fashion that you’ll push them away. The girls here at the school are no different. If you open your heart…just a little…they will come to love you. And you have so much knowledge, so much skill to pass on. Wouldn’t it be a shame to waste it?”

Hecate finds she cannot speak, cannot even swallow around the pins and needles that are puncturing her throat. There’s salt between her lashes and hope burning brightly in her stomach. It’s a test of faith, a little bit like transferring for the first time, like leaning into that swirl of energy and magic and vanishing for less than a second.

She tells Ada she’ll consider her offer, but knows already what she is going to say.

That night she sets out to craft something from her magic. Something that will always remind her how far she has come, that she has learned to focus her powers. Something that will calm her nervous fingers when clouds of doubt block out the light. Something that will remind her to live every second of every day with a purpose in mind. Something just for herself.

* * *

 

And when the morning of her first class dawns, she is awake long before life begins to stir inside the castle. She washes herself with quiet care and combs out her long hair in front of a mirror. She slips into a midnight blue dress that hugs her figure yet reveals nothing. That shimmers dimly of violet if viewed in the right light. That whispers, _you may look but beware of the strength of my power._

She permits herself to feel the magic that tingles and crackles around the edges of her fingertips, alive and confident, a part of her. Smiles even as she uses her hands to twist and pull dark strands into shape until they form a neat bun upon her head.

When she lays out make-up on her vanity, she thinks of Pippa with longing and tender affection. With deep-buried gratitude. Hoping she is well and whole and cared-for.

She paints her lips red like foxgloves. Applies a pale pink powder to her cheeks. A fine black brush of eye-liner brings out her hazel eyes. And a dusting of mother of pearl on her lids says death keep off.

She is becoming, she thinks, as she rises from her chair to water the plants and flowers that line her windowsill, that bring a touch of green into these castle walls. And she will dedicate herself to the craft, to strengthening the girls with stern conviction and strict rules.

And when the sun starts to rise above Cackle’s Academy, she loops her time piece around her neck and holds it in both of her hands. It hums still with the magic of its creation and it steadies her.

Hecate will never forget what Ada has done – will sometimes be blinded by her unwavering loyalty – though she will soon become haunted by darkness again. One piece missing from her soul, one piece that haunts and hurts with incompletion. Guilt and regret not always easy to shake. But on this morning in September, she is Miss Hardbroom, potion mistress of Cackle’s Academy, and she is complete. Such is the beauty and the complexity of becoming, of changing and forming and growing evermore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- I've been waiting to write this chapter since the beginning :)  
> \- this is my version of Hecate finding her feet, my version of "After everything Ada has done for you", my version of the story behind the time piece she always occupies her fingers with (I love all the headcanons that connect the watch to Pippa but for this I wanted it to be something that's purely Hecate), my version of the rose on Ada's desk and my version of her dedication to the code (being lost is frightening)  
> \- as Hecate is growing and becoming herself, I wanted to draw in all the colours from the previous chapters again  
> \- and Hecate is stronger now from those experiences she's had, but she isn't completely...satisfied?Happy? There's a void mentioned in chapter 1 and maybe she can start to fill that void with Pippa in the final chapter   
> \- thanks for your continued kudos and thoughts. I'd love to hear your comments still :)


	11. Red

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- thank you for those that have accompanied me on this and left kudos and thoughts - I've found it really difficult wrapping  
>  this up for a number of reasons, so thank you for your support.  
> \- all colours taken from Deathless by Catherynne M. Valente and used as prompts for my plot  
> \- the full quote for red is: "When I streak my lips red as foxgloves, I say, "Come here, male. I am your mate, and you will not   
>  deny me."

Amongst themselves they formulate a plan and then, reluctantly, they split. Hecate watches as Pippa steps away, her hands glowing pink. She keeps watching as Pippa closes her eyes and envelops herself in her magic, feels how she focuses her energy which has always been eager and unrestrained. She hovers a few inches in the air, then begins to float from the balcony, smiling when her feet finally meet the grassy ground underneath. She glances back up at her once, brown eyes twinkling, then hurries away into the depth of the surrounding forest, leaving Hecate behind to collect her thoughts. To collect herself. Because she still has to face Ada now with some kind of flimsy excuse that she knows the other woman will easily see through. The idea leaves her quaking in her boots, filled with all the nervous flutters of an adolescent youth.

Still, she doesn’t want to keep Pippa waiting and transfers herself downstairs and in front of the doors leading to the ballroom. How odd, she thinks, catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror and remembering just in time to place her mask back over her face, how suddenly she looks so full of life. Red cheeked and bright eyed. No longer gapingly empty within but filled with something. Hope? Love?

She clutches a hand over her mouth and squares her shoulders. Because this is much too frivolous and silly, surely. Much too light-hearted to be like her who usually revels in the following of strict rules. 

The crowd inside the ballroom is still a whirlpool of colour that surges here and there to the rhythm of the music. And as she ducks inside, head bowed, shoulders tensed, she finds herself holding her breath, eyes skimming faces for Ada’s familiar blue eyes. But in the end it is Ada who finds her. Again.

“Hecate.” The familiar brush of fingers against her elbow. “Are you feeling better?”

She can tell that her concern is genuine, though there is curiosity too, a whole mass of unasked questions, in fact.

“Thank you…Ada…I needed some air. This is not precisely my comfort zone.”

“No, of course not.” A stubborn frown parts the headmistress’ brows. “And I am grateful you accepted my invitation. Though I must wonder, am I keeping you from something?”

Perhaps it is the way her magic fluctuates with abandon, or the way her hazel eyes keep drifting towards the door. Or maybe it is the fact that she’s returned without Miss Pentangle, that she is far more coiled with suppressed excitement than discomfort. Though a shade of that taints her energy still. Whatever it is that gave her away, Hecate feels her thoughts stalling within her head. Any excuses she might have concocted suddenly redundant.

“Miss Pentangle has invited me to join her for her Litha ritual. We wish to give thanks together.” Her voice quivers but thankfully does not falter and carefully, she nudges her chin up. Proudly. Refusing to hide her feelings or indeed herself any longer.

To her surprise, Ada rubs her hands together with pleasure and smiles at her, eyes shining through the slits in her owl mask. “Wonderful. In this instance, I shall offer excuses on your behalf and wish you a joyful Litha.”

She stares at her a little perplexed while happiness rushes like blood through her veins, then inclines her head, utters a breathy “Thank you” and transfers unceremoniously out of the ballroom and towards the edge of the forest. The sudden quiet is such a contrast to the noise of the revellers that she sways disorientated on her feet, grateful when a figure peels out of the shadows of the trees and extends a hand.

“I thought you’d wait at the altar?”

It is, after all, a well-known place of pilgrimage for witches and wizards. Pippa seems suddenly embarrassed, her eyes refusing to linger, her fingers furling as she moves to drop her hand. But Hecate quickly catches her, twines their fingers together, steadied by her nearness and hoping to reassure her in turn.

“I…needed to see that you were actually coming, Hecate. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have doubted you.”

It tugs at her heart and coats her tongue with guilt, this fear she can now so clearly see in Pippa. A fear to say the wrong thing or act the wrong way. A fear of losing her, she realises. And it is odd this knot in her stomach that still fills her with warmth.

“Please don’t apologise,” she says quickly, bringing her friend closer until a strand of blonde hair tickles her face, “it will take time, I think. For both of us.”

Pippa seems to accept this and squeezes her hand, then propels them into motion, deep into the heart of the forest. And Hecate inquiries about Pentangle’s, relieved to be able to ask all the little questions that have been plaguing her since she’s heard of its conception.

“It wasn’t an easy path,” Pippa concedes straight-away, “the council was never supportive of the idea. Witching academies are long steeped in tradition and the notion of creating one was close to blasphemous.” She chuckles, but Hecate can see how bruised her heart remains after was must have been years of struggle. “But while I tried to accommodate as much of their wishes as possible, I always held on to my original vision: that of a school which caters to all, though perhaps most importantly to those children growing up without privilege. I wanted to create a warm environment no matter their background or abilities. I’d like to think that’s what won them over in the end, though I fear it had more to do with my tenacity and the stack of research I presented to them.”

Hecate brushes her thumb across her knuckles, makes it so that her skin tingles with her magic rather than any lingering sadness. Pippa was always studious and clever, particularly when convinced of a cause. She can only begin to imagine how much knowledge she will have amassed, how proud she ought to be of her achievement.

“You are remarkable,” she tells her and feels the fondness spread from her heart throughout her entire body. Revels in the lack of shame she finds, no longer doubtful why someone like her would choose to be with her, but grateful and content.

They continue on in warm silence until they reach the altar which is barely visible under a flood of flowers. It is a testament to the magic of nature, located in the open bark of an ancient tree, oftentimes visited, devotedly worshipped. Hecate conjures up fruit and wine while Pippa sinks on her knees to give thanks to the sun, her whole body glowing golden and amber. Distracted now from her task, she watches on as Pippa sheds her dress and floats gently, inches above the ground. Her blonde hair unfurls also and drifts through the air as if caressed by a mild breeze, her mask dissolves into a flurry of butterflies that sweep through the forest in all colours of the rainbow.

She is the epitome of grace, beauty and femininity. She is the sun.

And she is mindful of her other half.

“Come, Hecate, join me,” Pippa entreats, reaching for her until she finds herself on her knees by her side, whispering ancient enchantments. “Join me…fully?” Pippa asks quietly and after a moment’s hesitation, Hecate agrees.

It has been years since she has shown all that she is without shame. Too convincing was the darkness, too empty this vessel she inhabits. But now that she peels off her gown, she no longer finds her shoulder blades turned outward for protection, she no longer perceives herself as a mass of coiled muscles and unyielding bones. There is a depth to her, a richness.

Hecate barely feels herself rise from the ground, cannot hear the quiet thud as her garments drop from her. Her half moon mask vanishing also into a number of bright-glowing orbs that swarm through the trees like faeries. 

There is only Pippa, radiant and warm, enveloping her in her arms until their foreheads come together. She’s set alight wherever they touch, moon and sun, lost in each other. Completing, complementing yet whole alone.

She moves her hand up and down Pippa’s back, feeling the softness of her skin while her lips devour her throat, thirsting for more. And Pippa yields and nourishes, then drinks her fill once she is sated.

At their feet, the silver watch lies forgotten; seconds, minutes and hours no longer of importance, not when Master Kairos has finally seen them reunited.

**Author's Note:**

> \- yeah, it's me again. I have a list of fics I'm ticking off one by one. I haven't forgotten about my final prompt, but this one  
>  required instant writing  
> \- this will be told rather differently. Red will follow the thread of the masked ball, and the chapters in between will go back  
>  to older moments between Hecate and Pippa - similar to Coming Undone, but slightly different, I promise, I just don't  
>  want to give more away just yet :)   
> \- having said that, there might be some questions you have, but they will be answered gradually!   
> \- I owe so much of this to thispapermoon, our discussions regarding colours and make-up and her excellent recommendation of Deathless from which some quotes will be taken (such as "Red as foxgloves"). This one's for you :)  
> \- Litha is summer solstice   
> \- it felt an excellent opportunity to include the silver and golden dresses  
> \- this might be more hurt/comfort than my previous stuff, Hecate is in a slightly different place in this. If this upsets you  
>  in any way, please don't read.  
> \- and lastly, if you're so inclined, please leave me some feedback. I love you guys joining me and your comments honestly  
>  mean the world! :)


End file.
